


He Who Endures

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [16]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Illegal Activities, John Watson is Missing, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, True Love, Worried Sherlock, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Watson goes missing, arrested for vagrancy and practicing medicine without a license. Frantic, Holmes must wait as Joe and Simon attempt to find out where he is.This is part of a Victorian AU where Reichenbach happened, but Moran won and carried on what Moriarty had begun. At this point, Watson has served two years in prison for gross indecency and Holmes, presumed dead for nearly eight years, has returned to him. Holmes, disguised, is working at the club Moran frequents, and Watson is writing an expose on health care for a small independent paper.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	He Who Endures

We do not talk about Watson’s wife. From the moment I gave my approval to the marriage, Mary Morstan ceased to be a topic of conversation between us. She soon produced a small Watson, and we talked about her instead. There was much of her father in Rose Watson, and his adoration for the tiny girl eventually became my own. I was given the role of godfather, the first time I had even considered what being a _father_ might mean to me.

When he told me that she had divorced him and taken Rosie away, I was outraged. What do vows mean— _for better or worse_ — if people abandon them at the first sign of trouble? (I never would have.) As a result of her inconstancy, Watson would never again read his daughter a bedtime story, plant kisses on her forehead, or comfort her when she was hurt. He would not see her grow up. This was monumentally unfair. No matter what he had done, she was as much his daughter as hers, and the woman should have no more rights than the man in such matters. I was angry, heart-broken, devastated for him.

Privately, though, I rejoiced. Now there was no question but that he belonged to me. _She_ had no claim on him.

Nor, in truth, did I. Men do not marry one another. The law does not permit us to plight this troth. In fact, it punishes men who love one another. The law is an ass.

He and I had made vows to each other that were every bit as binding as if they had been legal. They were _our_ law.

Except for the small photograph of Rose that Watson kept next to his side of the bed, kissing it each night when we retired, it was as if Mary Morstan had not existed.

I do not claim to be a kind or charitable person; that is Watson’s domain. On his wedding day (I did not attend), I reasoned that she would have him until death only, and perhaps hers would come sooner, rather than later. Her own mother had died very young, in childbirth, she’d told us. Women tended to do that, and I rather hoped that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps, leaving her husband and small daughter to fend for themselves. It was an ungenerous thought, but yes, I’d had it.

I admit she took good care of Watson. As women go, she is sensible, not overly tiresome or loquacious. She does not twitter on about nonsense, but has almost as great a gift of silence as her husband. With some amusement, I imagined them at breakfast or dinner, awkwardly searching for topics of conversation. But most marriages eventually dissolve into silence, I have observed. She was independent enough not to resent his indifference, and too proud to demand his attention. If there had to be a Mrs Watson, she was the ideal choice.

And yet, the fact that there had to be a Mrs Watson was intolerable, no matter who it had been. I cannot say why I dislike Mary Watson so. It is not a rational sentiment, but there it is. Sentiment is an ass.

She had relinquished her legal claim on him. She would no longer take care of him; that was my responsibility now. Watson had mentioned something about financial arrangements which Mycroft had made to provide for them. Money was nothing to me; she could have it all, if I could have Watson.

I say all of this to make it clear that when I promised Watson I would never leave him, nothing could shake my resolve. We had survived a long separation, but had one another once more. I hoped that he would see his daughter again some day; I hoped never to see Mrs Watson again.

He was intent on protecting me, even prepared to leave me if need be. I had forbidden him to think about that; we would stand together against our enemies. He was in more danger than I was, I thought, since he was living openly as John Watson, ex-convict. Moran undoubtedly knew where he was. I was in less peril because Moran thought me dead and had not penetrated my disguise. Watson went into the streets each day, not heeding the danger. Well, it was not that he didn’t see it; he was a soldier after all, and accepted that danger has always been part of what we do. He was _my_ soldier, used to taking risks that he would not permit me to take.

And he was a doctor as well. He tended those who could not afford medical treatment, people who lived in neighbourhoods where a doctor’s bag would bring a good sum from a pawnbroker. Simon had made sure that all the gangs knew not to touch him, using whatever threats he could credibly make. The Irregulars were still a force, he’d told me, and had connections with other gangs in the area. Everyone knew the doctor who went into the slums and took care of hurt workmen, sick children, and everyone’s mothers. All had been told that Dr Watson was off limits, and any gang touching him would face retribution from the other gangs.

Still, I worried about him constantly.

Making tea for us one morning, I paused and looked closely at him. He was buttoning his shirt, his face intent on some other problem as he unconsciously fiddled each button into its hole. Because I work nights, I rarely see him in full daylight. This morning I was able to confirm something I had only felt in the dark the previous night.

“Come here, Watson.”

Smiling, he approached, waistcoat unbuttoned, cravat in his hand. Though his clothing was all second-hand now, he still dressed with attention to detail, like a gentleman.

I ran my finger over his upper lip. “My love, you’ve missed a spot. A rather obvious spot, I’m afraid.”

He grinned. “You said you missed my ‘stache. I’ve decided it’s time to grow it back again.”

“Oh. I thought you were considering the cost of soap, cutting corners to save us a few pennies, and wondered if you would grow a full beard next, to save even the cost of the blade.”

He laughed at that. The sound rushed through me like a surge of joy. It had been so long since I had heard his laugh, his genuine unguarded laugh. I smiled, but my eyes filled, and I had to pull him into a crushing embrace.

“John.” I could get no words out.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said gently, rocking me a bit. “We are still who we ever were. No one can take that from us.”

“We are becoming quite good at being poor,” I said. “I feel no hardship sharing poverty with you.”

“No hardship.”

“I remember how we used to spend money willy-nilly. What I would give for half of what we had before!”

He looked up at me, his eyes twinkling. “You make it sound as if we were a couple of spendthrifts, two men out and about on the town, dancing and drinking into the wee hours, throwing money out of cab windows. I don’t remember many galas, dining on champagne and oysters. I do remember quite a number of evenings when we sat in our chairs, smoking cheap tobacco and watching the embers dwindle. Very cheap entertainment, that.”

“I miss those evenings,” I said. “But I’ve never been happier than now. I’m so happy, John.” As if to contradict my words, I burst into tears.

He held me, rubbing his hands against my back and making little hushing sounds. I had not wept in so long, it was as if my heart was emptying itself of all the fear and loneliness of those years apart, all the cold nights I slept by myself, wondering if I would ever see him again. I had never expected to be happy again; being in his arms again made my heart almost burst.

After a few minutes, I managed to get my tears under control. I looked down at him, stroking the nascent moustache. “You must be careful, my dear. The evenings still come early, and you must be home before dark.”

“Are you working tonight?”

I nodded. “If you get home by five, we can see one another before I leave— and you will greatly put my mind at ease.”

“I will.” He smiled. “My report on health care has been picked up by two more papers, Brody said. My little scribblings may be just one umbrella against a deluge, but—“

“It makes a difference, I assure you. Moran has noticed, and is displeased. For this reason, you must be careful. Please, my love— don’t stay out so late.”

“I promise. I’ll have Charlie and Wiggins walk me home.”

I gave him a final squeeze and a kiss. “Until tonight, then.”

I suppose it’s dramatic irony. We are all in a play and haven’t read ahead to know what will happen. When I kissed John goodbye that morning, I feared for his safety, as always, but I was certain I would see him that night.

After two days of washing dishes at the Bagatelle in my guise as Julien Durant, (I presumed Jacques Renard had been declared dead in the mill fire; Moran might have recognised his name, though), I had been promoted to waiter. My elevation had little to do with my own talent at waiting tables; Moran had not once looked me in the face. Rather, he had taken a dislike to one of the waiters who served him and his cronies, and had insisted he be replaced, preferably by someone who did not speak English.

The name Durant means _enduring._ I intended to outlast Moran.

As a waiter, I could legitimately enter and leave the room where he met with his intimates. I could even hover a bit, waiting to see if any of them wanted something. As I had predicted, they paid me little heed. For my part, I kept a bland, uncomprehending expression on my face, trained my eyes on the glasses and dishes and subtle gestures that a waiter must notice— a raised finger, a knife and fork placed sideways across a dish, a serviette unfolded on a lap or laid on the table. My observational skills are what make me a good waiter.

All the while I was coming and going with trays, I was listening to their talk. I heard names that I had learned in France: Lord Holdhurst, Lord Bellinger, Messrs Payne and Lowell. These were wealthy, powerful men who did not care much about the lower classes. Like most men who have acquired things, they see the world as a great chessboard to be rearranged at their whim, the rest of us as pawns to be sacrificed. 

The Labouchere Amendment was, as my brother had suspected, just a convenient way for Moran’s party to blackmail political opponents. I had the misfortune to make an enemy of James Moriarty, which led me to Reichenbach, my brother to his death, and ultimately sent Watson to prison for two years. Moran was a vindictive man. It was not enough to win; he felt compelled to crush his opponents.

But the real agenda of these men I had not yet learned. They were quietly arresting young men— and women too, according to Joe Lestrade— and had revived the old workhouse system to effectively imprison those who had broken no law. The system, once meant to assist the unemployed poor, had by 1880 become mostly a refuge for the elderly and infirm, but new legislation had turned its purpose to clearing the streets of vagrants and beggars, who had become a public nuisance. That is what the proponents claimed, at least. What was really happening was what I intended to discover.

After Watson left on his rounds that morning, I visited Joe Lestrade in his offices. He leased a building on Robert Street, living above and using the ground floor as offices. I entered and greeted Simon, who served as his clerk, and went on into Joe’s room. Sitting with him was his father, whom I had not seen since arriving in London. He knew of my return, of course, and was one of our trusted inner circle. 

The older man grinned when he saw me, rising to offer his hand. “Mr Holmes, you look quite well— for a dead man.”

“It’s so good to see you, Inspector.” I held his hand for a moment. “I’m sorry.“

I did not need to say what I was apologising for. His defence of me— and Watson, I’d learned— had cost him a lot. In consideration of his long service to the Yard, he was permitted to retire early, with a reduced pension.

“You need not apologise,” he said. “We’ve had our differences, Holmes, but right is right, and I will ever defend it against men like Moriarty and Moran. You’re a good man, and the world can always use more of those. I am delighted to see you back.”

He was thinner than I remembered him, and held a cane to stand.

“They should not have forced you to retire early.” I might have told him he looked well, but I am not good a social lies.

“I’m no chicken,” he said, laughing. “Not in any shape to go running down criminals these days, but I still have some bounce in me.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Dad,” said Joe. “The ones we can run down and catch aren’t the big game.”

“And the big game will require a different sort of gun,” I said, turning to Joe. “Watson says you’ve been working through the courts, trying to recover some of our boys.”

“The law is what it is,” he replied. “The sentencing is what has become punitive. Most of the judges who hear these cases are in Moran’s pocket. Not only the judges— witnesses and juries have become commodities.”

“Tell me about Watson’s trial,” I said. “He doesn’t like to discuss it, but I’m curious. I would not have expected him to back down so quickly and make a guilty plea.”

Joe shook his head ruefully. “They wanted to burn him. Moran had procured witnesses, coached them to describe acts of debauchery with multiple partners, many of them boys. He even had a few young men who would swear he’d met them at clubs and engaged in sodomy with them in alleys and cheap hotels. His housekeeper had been paid off, prepared to make statements about who visited his house, what they talked about— even to testify about his laundry.”

The loathing and anger I felt at hearing this rose from my gut. I choked, feeling acid at the back of my mouth. “My poor Watson,” I whispered.

Lestrade nodded. “Your brother helped, got him the best defence, but they couldn’t fight that monster.”

“They knew he was guilty of one thing, and not likely to admit that in court,” Joe added. “They really wanted a public spectacle. It was an act of rebellion that Watson admitted what he did. He might have gotten a lighter sentence, considering that he only admitted to _gross indecency_ with you, in the privacy of your rooms, but Moran was furious to be deprived of his show. I’m afraid he’s not done taking it out on the doctor.”

“Was he behind Watson’s dismissal from Barts?”

Joe shook his head. “I don’t believe so. That was just the mean-spirited narrow-mindedness of Edmund Burgess. He’d love to close the charity ward, but knows he can’t under the current charter.”

With all this obvious chicanery going on, I wondered aloud whether Moran might be exposed if enough Members of Parliament simply banded together and told the truth.

“Mr Holmes,” Joe told me, “you have ever been a crusader for right, my father has said. I mean no insult, but you do not understand how these men work— how politics works. I’m not sure why we let politicians decide anything, given how terrified they are of losing their constituency. If you’re looking for an honest politician, one willing to simply do the right thing, you might as well give up now.”

“What about the constituency? Are they not called fickle after every election? If they know what these men are up to, will they not put pressure on them?”

He looked thoughtful, hand holding his chin, and in that pose reminded me of his father, one of the few honest coppers I’ve known. “That may be possible. It cannot be done willy-nilly, though. We must have a plan.”

He smiled then, and I knew the plan would not rely entirely on my ingenuity.

“I’m making good use of my job,” I said. “Thank you for that.”

He nodded. “Dad mentioned your theatrical gift, remembering several times when you bluffed him with a wig and greasepaint.”

“I am sufficiently disguised, I believe, to listen in on Moran’s plans.”

“We need to bide our time until we have enough to ruin him,” he said. “Doctor Watson is in a position to gather information as well, and to see that we get a platform when we’re ready to go public.”

“I will ruin him for what he did to Watson.”

He shook his head. “I understand your anger. This has to be more than a personal vendetta, though. We cannot afford anger; it makes us careless.”

I knew this, of course. And I knew that more damning things were there to be uncovered. Moran, however, was not garrulous. He did not really trust anyone, I sensed.

“Big business trusts him,” I said. “Wealthy men trust him not only because he can get legislation passed that protects their interests, but because he can provide them with cheap labour.”

“Yes, that’s happening,” Joe said. “Allowing private companies to run the workhouses means the inmates can be forced to do any type of work those companies choose.”

“Virtual slavery,” Lestrade muttered.

Privately, I thought it was worse than that, but it was only a suspicion that I had. I needed evidence before sharing.

Watson did not appear at five, and I left for the Bagatelle. It was not yet dark, and my doctor had no doubt found some last-minute case to tie him up. I felt a prickle of uneasiness, but reminded myself that he had minders following him now, who would see that he arrived home safely.

Moran had quite a few dining companions that night. Some I’d seen before, but others looked more like bankers than ex-military men or politicians. I endeavoured to look more stupid than usual. I wore a pair of glasses when waiting table, one more screen between my eyes and his.

Because of the number of guests, two of us were required tonight, myself and another Frenchman, August Michaud. He was as heavyset as I was lean, and a bit clumsy. Moran had decided he was stupid, and kept him for that reason.

As I laid a plate upon the table, Moran suddenly glanced up into my face. He frowned and looked across at Lambert, the head waiter, who had stepped into the room to check that all was well.

“Who is this man?” he asked.

“Durant is his name, sir,” Lambert said. “Julien Durant.”

I did not look at Moran. Rather, I looked across at Lambert, who had just spoken my assumed name. I did not speak.

Moran looked up at me. Aware of the eye contact, I lowered my gaze. “Monsieur?” I said, keeping my voice deferential,just above a whisper.

“Where did you come from? Vous parlez Anglais?” He said this with terrible pronunciation.

“Pardon, monsieur,” I murmured. “Je ne parle pas anglais.”

Something was tickling his brain, making him suspicious, but I didn’t know what it was. I stepped back and resumed my blank stare.

“Is there a problem, Colonel?” asked Lambert.

“Who vetted this man?”

The head waiter inclined his head. “I did, personally.”

This told me two things I hadn’t known.

First, Lambert was on our side. I knew that he had not personally vetted me or had anything to do with hiring me. Joe knew the head of staff at the club, who was also one of us; he had accepted Joe’s recommendation and promoted me into the position of waiter. In saying that he had approved my employment, Lambert was telling me that he understood why I was there, and would protect me.

Second, Moran hadn’t actually recognised me. His eyes had not studied me with suspicion, like a man trying to figure out why I seemed familiar. He was simply securing his perimeter. Tonight’s guests were there for a specific purpose, and he was concerned about who would be listening to their conversation.

This gave me a third piece of information: something important was happening, and he could not afford to have any spies in the room.

I was aware that I appeared nervous, but this could work to my advantage. He would expect me to cower under his scrutiny. If I played it well, he would not see that my nerves were from fear of discovery.

Pretending that you do not understand what a person is saying is harder than it appears. There are small flashes of understanding that appear unbidden in our expressions. As an astute observer of people, I could recognise these unconscious tells. I hoped that Moran could not. My guess was that he read people as a hunter reads his prey, noting mainly body language. And he liked to think that everyone was less intelligent that him. This was his weakness, that he did not believe anyone was able to fool him.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and cast a terrified look at Lambert, hoping I looked like a man worried that he is about to lose his job.

“He’s a good waiter, Colonel,” the head waiter said. “But he speaks no English other than what is on the menu. His cousin used to work here. Do you remember Marcel?”

Moran squinted at his cigar. “Marcel was an idiot.” He snorted a laugh and glanced at me. “Are you as stupid as your cousin?”

“Mon cousin, oui.” I nodded stupidly.

This made him laugh loudly. I saw his shoulders relax and his attention shift to the other men around the table.

Lambert nodded at me, indicating that I should bring the coffee service. August was serving the blancmange.

With a blank expression I hovered invisibly behind the guests, ready to refill their coffee cups. August brought in brandy and cigars. As I served coffee and took away plates and silverware, I was able to learn that Moran had introduced something new and highly illegal into his workhouse scheme.

The men were bidding on debt— not the debt of institutions, but the personal debts of individuals who had been sent to the workhouse. They were, in essence, buying human lives. The unfortunates on the auction block would never work off their debt, as they were charged for their keep, and the interest was compounded, increasing the principal debt. This was more than _virtual_ slavery. It was, in fact, literal slavery.

I observed the proceedings, feeling a bit ill. In some cases, the buyers were looking for gangs of workers for their factories or estates, and chose men by age and physical ability. Photographs of other unfortunates were passed around the table. These were mainly women and good-looking boys.

Joe Lestrade had hinted at something like this, but here was evidence in front of me. It would not be enough for me to testify at what I’d seen and heard. These slaves must be found and liberated, their stories told to the public. The reality that slavery existed in the United Kingdom would astound most people and embarrass Parliament.

This was the mistake we’d been waiting for, the one that could bring Moran down.

It was after midnight when I left the club. I was surprised to find Simon outside, waiting for me. In his face, I read that something had happened.

“Watson?” I asked, fearing the worst.

He nodded. “He’s been arrested. Mr Lestrade is at the station, but hadn’t gotten in to see him when I left him there.”

“Who was with him?”

He grimaced. “Just Tommy. There were supposed to be two others, but they’ve disappeared. Either bought out by Moran’s gang, or captured.”

“How long ago?”

“A few hours. I’m sorry, but Joe said not to disturb you at work, as there is nothing you can do. He will find out what’s happening and do whatever is possible to get him free.”

“What are the charges?”

“Vagrancy— that is, unemployment— and practicing medicine without a license.”

“Rubbish,” I said. “He has a job. They don’t like what he’s writing for the paper. Squashing the opposition is their motive.”

“You’re right.” He smiled grimly. “I think they’ve picked the wrong man, though. Don’t worry, Mr Scott. We’ll see him home in a day or two.”

A day went by, then two, and then a week. All Lestrade could learn was that Watson had been sent to the Manchester Workhouse and sentenced to remain under the jurisdiction of the Poor Board until his debt was paid in full. The charge of practicing medicine without a license was dropped, making it an administrative issue rather than one for the courts. Lestrade had ordered an accounting of all that Watson owed so that he could raise funds to free him. He’d spoken to Watson once, before he was taken to Manchester, but the hearingwas already over by then. Watson seemed calm, he said, joking that he could write an exposé on the system once he got out. My fear (and Lestrade’s) was that he would not get out.

I had shared with Joe and Simon what went on at Moran’s debt auctions. Knowing what I did, I had no doubt that Watson would be bought by one of Moran’s people, or even Moran himself. Once he was out of government oversight, he might disappear, as others had. The longer the bureaucracy delayed reporting how much he owed and for what, the likelier it was that this would happen.

A month went by. Lestrade had talked with the Poor Board, the Office of Debt and Social Welfare, the Local Government Board, and several departments I’d never heard of. It was endlessly frustrating.

My work at the Bagatelle continued. Though I was still committed to a cause larger than my own, I kept my ears open for any information that might help Watson. Moran didn’t come in every day, but when I saw him, several times a week, I had to restrain myself from taking a knife from the kitchen and shoving it into his neck while he was drinking his tea. It might have made me feel better, but it wouldn’t have solved anything.

 _When I finally have you_ , I thought, _your demise will be so painful that you will regret every single thing you did to John Watson_.

The hardest part of each day was coming home late to an empty room. Because our work schedules were different, John’s habit was to be in bed, though not always asleep when I returned. Then I would disrobe and wash up, crawl into the bed beside him. We would talk, and other things. And I would drift off to sleep, knowing he would wake me in the morning to kiss me before he left for his rounds.

Now I woke in a cold room with no warm Watson to snuggle against. Work distracted me for a few hours, and then I was home again, in my lonely bed. Each day felt bleaker, each night longer. The hardest part of each night was thinking about what he might be suffering now.

I thought about our early days. How distant that time seemed now! I remembered how I wanted him to move out when he criticised my article, and how Mycroft pointed out that my problem was simple: I was in love with John. And after that, everything that had seemed so complicated was suddenly easy.

It hadn’t been easy, even then, I reminded myself. We lived together as bachelors in a time when that had begun to seem suspicious. When that suspicion seemed too much, he had married in order to remove it. But too much was happening that was hidden to us. Moriarty played us as pawns in a game we had not even seen.

It did no good to dwell on what was done. Somewhere, John Watson was lying in the dark, waiting for me to come to him, to bring him home. _Hang on, my love. I’m coming._

On Sundays our habit was to walk to St Mary’s for service, and then treat ourselves pastries and coffee at Bridgeforth’s. In Watson’s absence I continued going to church, thinking it would please him to know I had not fallen into heathen habits. I mostly went for myself, though; it gave me a few moments of peace. I am not a prayerful man, but I did take the opportunity to sit in silence and think what it might be like to rain fire and brimstone down on Moran.

Returning to my room on the fourth Sunday after Watson’s abduction, I was surprised to find a visitor waiting for me.

Mary Morstan. I hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. And now, here we were, facing one another across the rickety table of a one-room flat, drinking tea out of mismatched mugs. A far cry from 221B Baker Street, where she first sought my help.

She was never a beautiful woman, certainly no match for a man as handsome as my Watson, but she had once possessed a kind of grace that might have passed for prettiness. That delicate spring had now been driven out by storms, its blossoms scattered, its trees spindly. She was no longer slender; she was thin. Her pink complexion appeared sallow, her hair faded, the blond beginning to turn grey. On that long-ago day when she sat in our sitting room and told us about her father’s disappearance, she might have become an heiress and led the sort of life young girls dream of, a devoted husband, loving children, beautiful home. When her fortune didn’t materialise, she still might have lived a life unmarked by scandal. But she’d married Watson, a safe choice at the time, and his ruin had been her own shame.

She was thirty-nine, a woman who might perpetually claim to be thirty-nine. Her clothing was respectable, not expensive. Watson had said that she was teaching in a school for girls up north. It had taken a great deal of resolve to come here, to this dreadful flat, and sit across from the man who had ruined her life. I respected that, but I could not like the woman.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

“What for?” she asked. “Can Sherlock Holmes actually be sorry for something?”

She might have come to argue with me, I thought, to tell me what she thought of me, maybe to gloat at my failure. I did not think she was the kind of woman who wasted time on regrets, though. Neither of us had won anything.

“Your daughter, Rose. Is she well?”

She nodded and shifted in her seat. “She is very like him. A sturdy little thing. Nothing prissy or fragile about her.” She sighed. “She misses him.”

Her eyes shone, but she did not weep. A strong woman, resigned to what life had provided.

“He misses her as well,” I said. “Perhaps they will see one another again. That will be up to you, of course.” I meant this as a bit of a barb.

“I hated you.” She raised her chin, smiling. “But I don’t blame you.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. I deserved her hatred, I supposed. “You _should_ blame me. I certainly blame myself.”

“You didn’t take him away from me, Mr Holmes. In truth, he was never mine.” Her look remained hard. “I prefer truth, don’t you?”

“We were not honest with you. If you do not blame me, you must blame him.”

“No. He was a decent husband. A good man, compared to most. And I was not entirely blind. I saw what you were to each other, but I agreed to marry him when he asked.”

I did not ask her why she had agreed to marry a man who was in love with his best friend. If there was more to it than a desire to have the status that marriage confers on a woman, I did not want to know.

“It’s for him that you’ve come, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “I know what’s happened. He’s served his time, but they won’t let him go.”

“I don’t know what to do.” I dreaded her response. There was only one thing I could do, and that was to come out of hiding, face my enemies, and take the punishment that Watson had taken alone. That he was still taking alone. This was why she had come, I decided, to shame me into revealing myself. And she might be right; perhaps there was no other way to solve this.

“It’s not what _you_ can do,” she answered, against my expectations. “He wouldn’t want that. But I can do something for you both, I think.”

I listened in awe as she explained what I had overlooked. She had a plan, which was already in place.

“Do not despair, Mr Holmes,” she said. “Once you gave him to me. Now I may be able to give him back to you.”

There is more to Mary Morstan than meets the eye. If she could do what she promised, I would owe her far more than I could ever repay.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on historical accuracy in this AU: This is an alternate universe that looks very much like Victorian England, but I have chosen to ignore some real events, to change others, and to use a few in the story. Just a reminder that I'm making things up here. The Poor Board and workhouses were real, but Moran's repurposing of them as prisons is my idea. Though some authorities hoped to make a profit on the workhouse using the free labor of the inmates, the illegal human trafficking described in this chapter is entirely my own invention.


End file.
